The Lost Art of Compassion

Today, we went to visit the baby prison in Chantaburi.

Yes, I said the baby prison.

Children ages 6-18 are incarcerated there, and the vast
majority of them for selling (and using) drugs.

Our goal for the day was to hang out with them, share a
little bit of the love of Jesus, and just have a good time.

 

I don’t know what the picture you have of prison visits in Thailand
are supposed to look like, but I wasn’t expecting what I saw.

What I expected was sixty-four faces, sitting perfectly in
six rows (five boys and one girls) staring back at all the white people in
front of them, trying not to be bored by what they thought we were going to be doing.

What I didn’t expect was the laughter that rolled out of
their mouths as each of us on the team was interviewed (read: introduced) to them.

Or the joy that radiated from their smiles as we finished up
our time with them by doing the Cupid Shuffle.

 

The official music video for Cupid Shuffle… I don’t have the footage of us doing it!

 

What I expected the least, but should have seen coming, was
the deep, awful pain in my chest the entire time we were there that is only now
subsiding as I type out all my thoughts.

It’s the physical manifestation of a gifting that I’ve
struggled with for most of my life.

This thing called compassion.

This thing that I’ve questioned at times whether it’s a gift
or a curse and am only starting to see as something good God has given me.

 

Because it doesn’t feel good when my heart is breaking for
people.

And my heart is breaking today for these babies.

Before today, I could have told you the cold hard facts
about them without a teardrop.

Last night, they were statistics.

This morning, sitting in their perfect little lines, the
statistics came alive.

And now I can’t think about them without wanting to cry.

 

The thing about this gift of compassion is that I have a
choice when it manifests itself.

I can ignore it, push it away and pretend like everything is
fine (which I’m really, really good at).

Or I can decide to act on it, and work out what that means
in whatever situation I’m in.

Does it mean praying?

Does it mean sitting down and talking with the person I’m
feeling it for?

Or does it mean putting everything I have into showing people
the love and joy and freedom I’ve found as a child of God?

 

Maybe that’s the most compassionate thing I could do this morning,
but I don’t know for sure.

I don’t have all the answers.

If I did, I’m not sure I would be here, which probably means
that not having the answers is a good thing.

Guess I’ll have to wait and see how that turns out.